


Halloween Special: Let the Devil In

by retrowavesasquatch



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Demon Sex, Dubious Consent, Haunting, Nonbinary Character, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26936737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/retrowavesasquatch/pseuds/retrowavesasquatch
Summary: Corvid Chornovil is Pine Hollow's resident witch, a charade they're more than happy to keep up for the sake of buisness. After getting confronted for being a fake, strange occurences begin happening in the shop.
Kudos: 2





	Halloween Special: Let the Devil In

The bell over the door jingles as the woman finally leaves. Corvid quickly locks the door behind her in case she turns around with a new insight.

Outside, past the red neon eye that advertises tarot readings, the sun has long set behind the mountains. She’d just refused to leave after the reading. A reading that was supposed to only last thirty minutes at most. Corvid frowns at the two bills on the table: a twenty and a five. She hadn’t even tipped, despite taking up all of their evening, and they’d been too afraid to cut her off.

While the car outside waits at the driveway for traffic to clear, they duck through the curtains into the kitchen. There they can groan out the withheld: “it’s not that deep. It’s never that deep. He’s just fucking someone younger and prettier because he can.” 

For the two hours and change that she’d been sitting across from them, all Corvid could do was keep up feigned attentiveness and utter the occasional “mmhm” and “I see”. They stole surreptitious glances at the phone in their lap as the minutes ticked by agonizingly slow, half-listening to her talk about some church friend going through some similar tribulation.

She was the type who wanted to pretend everything would be okay, and it’s God testing her faith and loyalty as a wife. It’ll all magically work out, and her family will be stronger for it. It’s a nice lie, but Corvid suspects the best case scenario ends in divorce.

Grabbing their phone, they call Atz while poking through the fridge. Nothing really appealed to them, and they just didn’t have the energy to unearth the hot plate for macaroni. “Pick up, stupid,” they mutter while trying to pry open the tupperware with yesterday’s microwaved pierogis.

Their brother answers right as the answering machine picks up. “ _You’ve reached the Chorno_ \- _Shi-shoot. Yeah, I got it, hon! Hey Charlie, we were just finishing up dinner_ ,” he says. “ _What’re you up to_?”

“Starting dinner,” they say, eyeing the four pierogis. There isn't enough to make a satisfying meal. As they root through the freezer for something to pad it out, Atz tells them about him and Ronda having to go to a parent teacher meeting yesterday. Apparently little Tracy picked a fight with someone tougher and got her ass whooped. 

“ _I gotta give it to her though_ ,” Atz chuckles. “ _It was a ploy to get out of going to school, and damned if it didn’t work_.”

They dump a few frozen quiches on the plate while he tells them she’s already missed over three weeks of school. “ _She’s burned through all her allowed absences. I had to get Dr. McKallister to write up some sick notes just so she won’t get expelled._ ”

Corvid sticks the plate in the microwave, “school sucks, but you of all people should know what happens when you miss too many days.”

Atz blows into the receiver, and Corvid winces at the crackling noise. “ _Yeah, yeah I reckon I do. She’s so determined not to go though. We don’t know what to do. Sending her to her room don’t work, because that’s where she likes being. She cuts up in class, so they send her home, which is what she wants_.” He continues on about how he doesn’t remember being that moody when he was her age, or Corvid either. They didn’t have the heart to correct them that they were likely just, if not more insufferable.

“Put her on the phone. I’ll text your cell in a second, okay?”

“ _Lord, what’re you gonna do_?”

“Shut up and do it, Ox.”

“ _Alright, Jesus._ ” Corvid hears him set the phone down and holler for Tracy to come downstairs.

As Corvid listens to the muffled stomping, and petulant “ _what_ ” from their nine year old niece, they type up Atz’s instructions:

<When she’s on the phone, just like leave her be. Go to the circuit breaker, and when I say do it, start flipping the lights to the kitchen. Just the lights k?>

<lol k>

Tracy finally answers and perks up when she realizes it’s her Aunt Charlie. “Your daddy’s been telling me about the trouble you’re getting into. What’s going on?” They ask, squirting a mound of sour cream onto the center of the plate of pierogies and mini quiche.

The beaded curtain clacks and Corvid glances over their shoulder. The curtains haven’t moved. It could be a draft. The place is old as hell. Still, they part the velvet drapes and wood beads to check the storefront. All the while Tracy is telling them their woes: She doesn’t like math, George and his friends pick on her for liking My Little Ponies and Dungeons and Dragons, she did bad on a test, she raised her hand and got the wrong answer in front of everyone, and she doesn’t like homework.

“No one likes homework, dude.” Corvid secures the drapes and curtain behind the holdback on the doorframe. They tell them they can always do it during lunch, or work on it little by little in class. “You look like you’re busy, which makes the teacher happy.”

_"But it’s stupid_.”

“Well, yeah. But here’s the thing, you have to go to school. If you don’t, your mama and daddy get in trouble with the law.” When she begins to argue, Corvid cuts her off, switching to speaker so they can text Atz. “Look, Tracy Gale Chornovil, if you don’t start behaving, I’m just gonna have to compel you, and you don’t want that, do you?”

<Rdy?>

<yep>

“Don’t make me get my cards, girl.”

<Now>

It takes everything in Corvid’s willpower not to start laughing when Tracy drops the phone and screams. Their shoulders heave, and they have to clamp a hand over their mouth to prevent the sound from escaping. Tears prickle their eyes as Atz feigns ignorance in the background, asking Tracy what’s the matter.

“ _She’s run upstairs to her mama_ ,” Atz whispers with a snort. “ _What the hell did you say to her_?”

“Just told her I was gonna witch her into going to school.” Corvid wipes at their eyes and looks out into the front when the floorboards squeak. It’s just the house settling, they think, and root through the collection of bottles on the counter for the siracha.

Atz thanks them, and says he’ll call in a few days to let them know if it works. “ _Talk to you later, Charlie horse._ ”

In the quiet, cramped bedroom, Corvid perches at their desk with the plate beside the keyboard. They catch up on a few emails and DMs while they absentmindedly pick at the hodgepodge dinner. With how light the DMs were, Corvid writes a reminder on a sticky note to post a teaser selfie. Bra or braless? They wrinkle their nose before stuffing a cold centered pierogi into their mouth. Bra, they decide. Can’t be showing too much for free. 

A knock shakes them from their scrolling. “For fuck’s sake.” Since the incident, they’d put a sign on the front window that they’d be open by appointment only now. Still, folks walked right past it and would rattle the knob anyway. 

They walk out to the storefront but don’t see the hazy outline of anyone at the door. They switch the neon lights off long enough to make sure no one is parked outside. Even with their nose pressed up against the glass, they see no one in the overgrown lot.

Behind them, a whisper and clack make them jump. The curtain slides from the hook in a cascade of wooden beads. Corvid rolls their eyes and walks over to yank them all back into place.

By the time they get settled back in front of the computer, the quiches were cold and the pierogis were little leather nuggets. Corvid still smears them around in the spicy sour cream and works through the tough little morsels. 

Again, a knock taps. This time against the frosted glass on the front door. A distinct, _tak tak tak_ of nails on thick glass. They only get up to lean through the doorway, confirming no one is waiting on the steps. It could be local kids or some bored dipshits from the college who’ve only just heard about the local witch. Though at the back of their mind, the thought that he could be back lurks just beneath the surface. Those angry eyes, the accusatory finger jabbed at them as he’d called them a whore and a fake, it still hadn’t gone away. 

It couldn’t be, they tell themselves. He’d been taken to a facility in Charlotte, to get the help they’d tried to tell him he really needed. 

Not wanting to sit in silence anymore, they start up a video just to hear someone else’s voice. There was a new mini-doc out on the abandoned mines beneath Cold Branch, a ghost town a few miles north of Pine Hollow. They glance at the open bedroom door, to the empty kitchen. For a moment they thought they’d heard the floorboards again, but it could just be the soundtrack in the background. There were subtle creaks, groans, and plinks of mining picks interspersed throughout the generic creepy music.

Corvid picks up their phone to check the camera feed while the narrator talks over slides of sepia toned photos. The front room is empty, their truck is still parked all by it’s lonesome at the side of the building, and there’s nothing hanging around the back porch. It’s a bit too early for the opossums and raccoons to start their dumpster diving.

The faint chatter from the bedroom provides some comfort. Still, they feel oddly on edge as they rinse the plate off to put in the dishwasher. A prickling runs along their spine and raises the hair on their arms. They focus on their hands closing the door, and the beige formica countertop. They focus on the open fridge and the bright light within. If they think about the pint of Phish Food in the freezer they won’t think about how it feels like something is standing behind them. Uncomfortably close, like folks did at the self checkout.

As much as they hate it, they have to turn around. They have to act calm, casual. Nothing’s there. It’s nothing. And it is just that: Nothing. Corvid lets out a shaking breath and a muttered “stupid” as they take the pint into the bedroom to finish watching the video.

As they’re scraping the bottom of the container for the last bits of caramel and marshmallow, a loud bang jars Corvid. The pint rolls across the floor and the spoon clatters against the desk, bouncing into their lap and smearing chocolate across their thighs. Heart pounding, they sit frozen in place, listening. There’re no footsteps, no voices, nothing to indicate a break in.

With a shaking finger they open the camera app and check the feed. The parking lot is empty and so is the front room. Could an animal have landed on the roof? It’s just past the time of year for the squirrels to be making a racket with the acorns. Corvid stands up and wipes their legs off.

They hesitate at the door with the empty container and spoon in hand. Shaking themselves out of it, they cross the threshold and look out to see an empty kitchen and an empty storefront. The neon light hums softly, and the wind outside scrapes the oak branches across the roof. It had to have been an animal, or maybe even a branch broke off. Nothing is out of place inside. They even opened the cabinets to make sure none of the stacked pots had fallen over.

Slipping on the sandals that were left next to the backdoor, Corvid steps outside. They walk a little ways out to look at the sloped roof. The black metal is bare but for a layer of dead leaves and some pine straw that’d blown from the nearby tree line. They look over to the forest, flimsily contained by a ragged chain link fence. Gaps and holes littered it, some natural, some made with wire cutters. The abandoned motel at the back of the lot was a popular urban exploration spot.

As they step back inside, Corvid nearly gags as an awful odor hits them. It’s strong enough that their eyes water and their dinner threatens to come back up their throat. The stench of burnt hair, urine, and animal stink is everywhere, and then just as quickly, vanishes. They’re left in the laundry room with the smell of detergent, stale water, and clove cigarettes.

Corvid shuts the door, and goes through every room, trying to search for the smell. The sink drain smells a bit eggy, but it’s not even close to that horrible funk. Still, they squirt expired lemon juice down all the drains in the house, just to make sure.

Could something have died under the shop? They hoped not, because that’d mean paying someone to come get it out. Which would postpone the much needed trip to go find some new jeans before it got too cold. Their old pair is getting a little too ragged in spots, and it’s been harder to keep them up.

Unease curdles in their stomach. It keeps their dinner feeling like it’s halfway up their throat, so they chew a few Tums to try and ease it off. When that just leaves them chalky mouthed and nauseated, they grab a ginger beer. They’d splurged a bit to get the fancy spicy kind, rather than the .79 cents store brand ginger ale. It’d meant they had to stretch the bags of frozen food, but now they were grateful for the impulsive, selfish decision. It burned the back of their throat and tickled it’s way down. Corvid belches, blowing prickling gingery air out their nose. 

It helps. After a few more sips their stomach begins to settle. They set the bottle on their desk, and queue up another video to keep the silence away. With the voice chattering behind them, going on about sightings of the Devil Ape, they change into an oversized flannel. 

As they button the shirt a heaviness begins to press against their back, like radiating body heat of someone standing way too close. Not close enough to touch, but close enough you can practically feel the shape and heft of them. Corvid focuses on the buttons and the motion of their hands. It’s nothing. Nothing could get in without them hearing it. The floorboards throughout the shop were old and creaked, no matter how lightly you stepped.

Keep your eyes open, and turn around. Corvid releases the breath they’d held as they face their empty bedroom. It’s just in your head, they tell themselves. 

After that day, when that guy got violently angry, they’ve been having nightmares and hearing weird shit around the shop. The nightmares kept them up, and they fought sleep after the bad ones. The noises and paranoia have got to be from a lack of sleep. His story about demonic possession was so earnest, so vivid, it’d stuck with them. He’d grabbed them by the shoulders so hard, shaken them, and shouted in their face. It’s trauma. They should seek therapy, but, like many of their clients, it was beyond their financial means.

They brush their teeth and wrap their hair up in a top knot. The reflection that stares back at them is tired. Corvid makes a face, sighing at the dark circles and worry lines. It’s going to take some filters or some light editing next time they take photos. Maybe they’ll bust out the goat mask again. That audience is a niche one, but it skyrocketed their follower count when a witch aesthetic blog reblogged the photos.

Sheepfarmer’s Daughter is waiting for them on the nightstand. As comforting as rereading A Wizard of Earthsea would be, they really need to start this new series. It kept getting recommended, and they’ve put it off long enough. They text Marla to let her know.

<lol about fucking time!>

Corvid had barely made it into the second chapter when the smell hit again. With it there in full force, they kick the covers off and try to pinpoint where it’s coming from. They drop down on all fours to see if it could be coming from beneath the floorboards or under the bed, but it just seems everywhere.

When they rise up to their knees to stand, a heavy blow knocks the air from their lungs. Corvid hits the floor hard, catching themselves on their forearms before their face could hit. Pain rockets up from their elbows and tingles down their fingers. The pressure on their back is immense. Corvid’s arms tremble as they try to get back up, but they give away. They feel the scrape and burn of their skin where the rough wood peels back the top layer.

It’s so solid between their shoulders. They feel it shift against the fabric of their shirt, bunching it around the small of their back. They feel it’s vice grip on their wrists, on their thighs prying their knees apart. Their vision is hazy around the edges, crackling like it does when they try to navigate a dark room. It narrows until only a pinpoint is left in focus: The wall socket where the computer’s power strip is plugged in. Dust coats the top of the plug, and the nearby paint is grungy from where they’ve propped their feet against the wall.

Their face and hands are freezing, and something puffs against their neck. That stench is all around them. It’s so strong it feels like a blanket smothering them. The odor and the weight makes the haze take on a red tint around the edges. It’s hard to take a breath. Corvid opens their mouth to gasp, but can’t make a sound. 

Pressure prods at them before their body gives way. Hot, slick, and distinctively male. It fills them up yet feels hollow all at once. It burns, and they feel the air circulating from the ceiling fan. Their mind desperately tries to figure out what’s happening. What’s in them? Why can’t they move? Why can’t they scream? 

It’s too heavy. It’s too much. They can’t struggle without being forced more firmly against the floor. Even flexing their fingers causes the grip around their wrists to tighten. In the darkened haze they think they see a face: Long, bearded, with eyes so dark they were near black. “John?” They can’t tell if they think it or say it aloud.

Something wet and slick runs the length of their throat. Weren’t they on their stomach? They can’t tell anymore. That pressure is gone, the heat is gone, but the burn remains. It spills out of them, and they can feel it run between their thighs.

John hadn’t called, had he? Corvid could have sworn he’d said something about his kid having some Brownie thing he was chaperoning for. They remembered when he pushed the roll of twenties into their bra and kissed their neck. He knew kissing on the mouth wasn’t allowed, but he pushed the boundaries every time he made an appointment. “I couldn’t get out of this one, babydoll.” They hate that name, but he always tipped so well.

That sensation against their neck left the skin chilled as it moved to their thighs. They feel humid air between their legs, and hear the scrape of something against the floorboards. It touches them, laves at them until they writhe and moan; and then just as quick, it’s gone.

Corvid sits up, gasping desperately for air. The quilt and comforter pile around their waist, and for a moment they look around in confusion. They’re in bed, the book they’d been reading is where they left it, open and face down on the nightstand. Picking it up they see that they were well past the sixth chapter, but don’t remember reading that far. They flip through, skimming unfamiliar paragraphs until they reach the end of the second chapter.

What had they been doing? Swinging their legs over the side of the mattress, they flex their toes on the rug on the pallet’s edge. Corvid presses the butt of their palms against their eyes and then blinks away the sleep haze. John’s handsome face, being fucked against the floor, it all is jumbled together in a fog.

They check their phone to see if he’d called or texted. The last message from him was three days ago, letting them know about the Brownie camping trip. Could he have snuck away? Linville Falls Campground isn’t that far of a drive from Pine Hollow.

In the bathroom, they stare at the tiled wall while they sit on the toilet. It burns, and they feel raw enough that they reach over to grab the box of wipes instead of toilet paper. Despite that, they found they were wet. Really wet. It hangs to them when they stand up, trailing down to cling to the seat.

It was just a dream, they think. Just like all the rest that’d robbed them of what little energy they had. Calling Atz, getting spooked, it all had just reminded them of how lonely they feel. It’s just their brain’s weird way of coping. The soreness is likely from the sriracha and ginger beer aggravating their IBS.

When they lift their arm to put the box of wipes back, something catches on their sleeve and stings. Rolling up the sleeve, they find their elbow is raw. The skin is rolled at the edges and pale next to the angry red abrasion. The other elbow is the same.

Was it a dream? They touch the edge of the abrasion and grimace. 

Corvid wipes it with alcohol and then hops in a circle as it burns. They grip the edges of the sink counter and squeeze the porcelain, trying to wait it out. As it settles to a dull, hot throb, they dab at the tender spots with a damp, soapy washcloth. “Fuck me, god damn it,” they mutter under their breath.

Once bandaged, Corvid returns to the bedroom and looks at the floor. The only thing disturbed was their bed, and it didn’t look any different than it did on any other morning. Their hair hadn’t been worse than usual. Other than flyaways, it’s still mostly contained in the scrunchie on their crown.

The cameras! If John had come to visit, he’d show up at either the front or back door. They fish their phone from beneath the covers and check the archive footage. They speed through moths fluttering around the back porch light. The only visitor was a raccoon that plundered around the perimeter of the shop. John’s blue Forester never pulled into the lot. 

With nothing else to go on, they check themselves over, seeking any evidence of an actual visit. No bruises. No scratches. The only thing they notice is something dried on their inner thigh, like snot that didn’t get completely wiped off an arm. It doesn’t have a smell. At least any that they can tell. As they pick at it, watching the flakes drift to the floor, a knock at the front door nearly makes them leap out of their skin.

They pull the flannel tight, like a robe, and look out into the front room. The hazy outline of someone waiting on the steps shifts their weight from one foot to the other. “Just a minute,” they call out.


End file.
